


a pillar I am, upright

by hauntedjaeger (saellys)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Dubcon typical of sex pollen by virtue of the concept of sex pollen?, F/M, Femdom, Gentle Sex, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Massage, Multi, Outdoor Sex, Predicament Bondage, Prompt Fill, Rough Sex, Sex Pollen, Sex in the Dark, Threesome - F/F/M, Tumblr Prompt, Vaginal Fingering, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:22:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21856780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saellys/pseuds/hauntedjaeger
Summary: OT3 prompt fills from Tumblr.“Do you need to hear the rules again?”He never needs to hear anything twice, but he whispers, “Yes,” anyway.
Relationships: Cara Dune/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 190





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> anonymous prompted: "could we please see something along the lines of Cara and Omera domming Mando but like... gently. Make that boy Moan. Omera says his name very softly and he Keens. He Deserves Gentleness"

“Do you need to hear the rules again?” 

He never needs to hear anything twice, but he whispers, “Yes,” anyway. 

“If you move before you’re told,” says Omera, “I’ll climb off of you and on to Cara instead. You are not to touch me. You are not to come without permission. If something doesn’t feel good, you tap the mattress or say ‘bantha’. You understand?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you need to be held down?” 

“No.” 

“Cara?” 

“Ready,” Cara says, half-hopeful he moves before he’s told. She gets her fingers into his hair, comfortable, waiting. 

He lets out an unsteady breath into the dark. “What’s she doing?” Cara asks him. 

“Hh… Her mouth.” 

That explains why he’s almost undone already. “Describe it to me.” 

He swallows audibly. “Warm.” 

Not exactly a poet, their Mandalorian. “No kidding.” Cara curls her fingers in his hair. “What’s next, wet?” 

“You’re a mind-reader.” 

“Get buffed,” she snorts. 

“You offering?” 

And put Omera out of a job? Cara gives his hair a little tug, just to remind him she’s still holding on. “What does it do to you?” she asks. 

He sighs. “Well, I’m hard.” 

“You’ve been hard since Omera said the word ‘rules’.” 

“That’s true,” he says. And then, “Ahhh,” because Omera hums. 

“Tell me,” says Cara. 

He pants, getting himself under control. “You know... what her mouth feels like.” 

Not like this, though. “ _Tell_ me.” 

“It’s like a shock. A long one. Every nerve, every part, all at once.” 

Yeah. Yeah, like something deeply buried, waking up. 

He lets out a high and needful whine. “I’ve got you,” says Omera, and Cara can hear the smile in it. Cara feels her move farther up the bed and settle herself. 

The Mandalorian starts to lift his head against Cara’s grip. “Uh-uh,” Cara reminds him, and he stops at once. She grins in the dark. Such a pleasure, to be heeded. 

“What about this?” she asks him. “Still warm and wet?” 

He moans, and Cara can think of few sounds more tuneful, or harder-won. “Does it burn?” Her hand shifts with his nod. “She isn’t moving, is she?” 

“Please,” he says, shakily. 

And then he jolts, and Omera stops what she just started doing, and she says, “I said no touching.” 

Cara lets go of his hair and follows his arms to where his hands have gone, automatically, to Omera’s hips. As much as she’d like to stay there with her own hands on Omera’s hips, and other places, she takes the Mandalorian’s wrists and places them above his head. She tsks. “What are we gonna do with him?” she asks Omera. 

“I can think of a few things,” says Omera. 

The Mandalorian shudders. Cara makes sure he’s got one hand turned palm-down so he can tap the mattress if he needs to, and she’ll feel the motion in his wrist as well. She leans over him, close enough for his lips to brush hers, upside down, when he speaks. “Please,” he says, “please--” 

Omera moves, creaking the bed, and Cara holds his wrists down as he tries to keep himself together. After a little while Omera says, “One hand,” so Cara loosens her grasp and he yanks his hand away, down to Omera, and Omera laughs, a sound that almost sparks in the dark. “You can move,” she rewards him, and the bed shakes when he does. 

He turns his other hand away from the mattress and clasps his fingers with Cara’s. Cara steals a quick kiss, but he makes it last until she feels Omera’s hair descend over them, and she pulls away and kisses the corner of Omera’s jaw while Omera is kissing him. 

Omera climaxes sweetly, crying out into the kiss. He slows to a halt along with her, but his hand in Cara’s does not relax. “He’s patient,” Cara says. 

“You want to get on his face?” Omera asks. The Mandalorian runs one fingertip between Cara’s knuckles. 

She’s had her fun there already tonight, and she’s not greedy. “Let him go. He’s been good.” 

“So, so good,” Omera rhapsodizes, and the back of her hand brushes Cara’s as she pets his hair. Omera whispers his name, and he makes a fragile sound, a sound of absolute surrender. Omera tells him, “Go on.” 

Fast and shallow he moves, and it doesn’t take long, the way they’ve worked him up. Not long at all before he holds his breath, and finally releases it in a broken groan. His hand goes slack. Cara lets go of it and reaches over to pat his cheek, but finds Omera is already touching his face, so she strokes Omera’s cheek instead. “Very good,” Omera praises, and he lets out all his breath. 

Cara stretches out beside them, enjoying the shared weariness and satisfaction of a night well spent. From nearby Omera murmurs, “How would  _ you _ describe my mouth, Cara?” 

“A little bossy,” says Cara, and Omera finds her arm and pinches hard. Cara laughs, and strokes Omera’s hair. “Ask me in the morning,” she says, “when it’s on me.” 

“You’ve got a deal.” 


	2. Reciprocity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is now the home of my OT3 prompt fills, or at least the sexy ones. You can send me prompts on Tumblr at @hauntedfalcon.
> 
> This prompt was "can we see Mando woken up to a nice surprise after he has a little Morning Issue To Take Care Of" ¬‿¬

“You’re poking me in the thigh,” says Cara, once she’s pretty sure he’s awake. 

There was a time, back when they all started sharing a bed, when he would have murmured an apology and rolled over. Thank kriff they’re past that now. His voice warms the back of her neck. “Worse places to poke.” 

Omera’s pretending to sleep, and Cara is between them anyway. “You need a hand?” 

“Don’t sound so eager.” 

“I don’t feel like boning,” she shoots back, “but I’ll get you off.” 

“Oh yeah?” The challenge is unmistakable. 

Cara turns over and takes hold of him, and no, she doesn’t feel like boning, but she does like the feel of him in her hand. He’s stock-hard, and when she wraps her fingers around him he lets out a sigh that gusts across her cheek. 

“What got you like this?” she asks. “You have a dream about Omera, naked in a krill pond?” 

“Naked in a krill pond is such a bad idea,” says Omera, giving up her ruse. She turns, and loops her arm over Cara’s waist. 

“No dream,” says their Mandalorian. “It’s just from being warm.” 

“Mm,” says Cara, bringing her free hand up to his face. She traces his brow, cheekbone, lips. Those last, he parts so he can put his teeth on her thumb. 

Cara moves her other hand. He makes a sound like comm static. “What’s better?” Cara says. “Taking care of this yourself, or letting me do it?” 

“You,” he groans. 

She grins. "Right answer.” Morning wood or no, the touch-starved fool would go stiff from a breeze. Must have been an awful lonely existence before, in that miserable small cot with no hands but his own. “How about a little reciprocity?” 

His arm crosses hers. Cara hooks her knee over his hip to give him better access, and they’re close now, chest to chest, breath to breath. When he touches her, Cara gives his upper lip a lick. His next breath comes out shaky, but the two fingers he has on her are steady enough. 

Cara stays steady too. He matches her speed, so she speeds up, and he does too, and they’re both breathing rough now. 

Omera’s hand teases down Cara’s forearm, following her motion. And then she skims back up, and cups Cara’s breast in her soft palm. 

Cara starts to curse, but the Mandalorian covers it with his mouth. His fingers slip against her, losing their rhythm, but she’s over the edge anyway, gripping him harder than she should and making high, pathetic sounds as a climax arcs through her. 

She’s lost between them, every time. Not a scrap of fortitude when they gang up on her. 

She pulls away from his mouth and bumps her hips back against Omera’s, and he doesn’t try to follow with his hand. Cara drops her head to his chest, and his hand comes to rest against her hair. Once she’s caught her breath, she starts to work at him again. 

Omera’s hand brushes Cara’s cheek as it passes. An instant later he hisses through his teeth, and Cara takes the opportunity to pick up speed again. Her wrist is getting sore, but this will be worth it. She lifts her head and puts her lips to his throat, and feels him swallow, and then moan. 

He turns away from them, out of Cara’s grip, so he’s the only one who gets messy. She puts her brow against his trembling shoulder as he works through it. Omera sets her cheek on Cara’s, and she twists to kiss her. 

The Mandalorian lets out all his breath. “Good morning,” says Omera, her lips curling against Cara’s mouth. 

And so it is, but they can make it better. Cara nudges him, and feels him nod, and she turns toward Omera and then onto and over her, kissing her as she goes. By the time she’s on the other side with her arms around Omera, he has moved too, farther down the bed, and Omera arches back against Cara when his mouth finds her, and Cara turns her face to the side of Omera’s neck, and she smiles. 


	3. the sex pollen one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a lousy way to go, killed by plants. Hopefully they’ll put something else on her grave marker. 
> 
> Then, as fast as it came on, it clears. She breathes the sweet smelling air and stares up at Djarin. “You okay?” he asks, panic edging his voice. 
> 
> “I’m fine.” Apart from burning up, anyway. She struggles with her collar, and he reaches down and finds the catch on it. The feel of his gloved hand at the slope where her neck meets her shoulder sends a wave of pleasure through her, so strong that Cara moans aloud. 
> 
> They both go still. That’s… not right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous said: "any chance you'd take a prompt about sorgan flower-sex pollen and an interesting time between an unfortunate mandalorian victim of said pollen and two beautiful women?" 
> 
> I swear this was going to be so much shorter and simpler before @thelostcolony started giving me ideas.

It’s grinjer season, and the scat trails lead their little hunting party into a valley, a day’s journey from the village. At the edge of the bowl they split up, Omera with the hoversled, and Cara and Djarin stalking on their own. If there’s trouble, they’re to send up a flare. 

Cara follows a trail of rubbed-raw trees to an open spot, filled from edge to edge with acid-yellow flowers. She crouches to examine the area where a creature sprawled and crushed a swath of them. They’re pretty things: the blooms are round bulbs, with long stamens emerging from the petals. Distractingly pretty. She reaches out to touch one that’s still standing. 

It explodes in a cloud of yellow. 

Cara coughs, and then she’s choking--her lungs burn and heave, but nothing gets past her windpipe. Panic rises in her like bile. She has just enough oxygen left in her brain to free her flare gun and fire it vaguely skyward before she collapses. 

What a lousy way to go, killed by plants. Hopefully they’ll put something else on her grave marker. 

Then, as fast as it came on, it clears. She breathes the sweet smelling air and stares up at Djarin. “You okay?” he asks, panic edging his voice. 

“I’m fine.” Apart from burning up, anyway. She struggles with her collar, and he reaches down and finds the catch on it. The feel of his gloved hand at the slope where her neck meets her shoulder sends a wave of pleasure through her, so strong that Cara moans aloud. 

They both go still. That’s… not right. 

Cara shakes her head to clear it, and tears off her gauntlets. She checks her forehead. Her hand comes away coated with sweat and yellow particles. “Hey,” she says, mouth dry. “You know I love you, right?” 

“You are not dying here,” Djarin says. 

Awww. Her swell of emotion sharpens into desire. She touches his helmet. Her reflection in the beskar stares back at her, pupils blown wide. “I know this is weird, but I have never wanted to bone this much in my life.” 

He straightens up, and her hand falls from his helmet to his breastplate, leaving a streak of yellow. She hooks her fingers over the edge of it. Her grip is strong no matter what, but it’s stronger now like some kind of survival reflex, and she isn’t sure she’d be able to force herself to let go if she gets her hands on his bare skin. “Your heart rate’s up,” he observes. 

“Oh yeah,” Cara agrees. It’s roaring in her ears. “You’re not feeling it. How come you’re not feeling it?” 

He taps the helmet, and her sluggish wits catch up. Air filters. That’s good, probably. One of them should be in full control. 

She wouldn’t mind him being in full control. 

Cara gets up on her knees. “You won’t need to take the helmet off.” 

“You’re not in your right mind.” 

A laugh bubbles out of her. Her mind is fine; it’s her body that’s gone all desperate and wanting, every nerve on fire. He wouldn’t have to take anything off. She’ll hump his thigh-guard if he just holds still long enough. 

Something crashes in the undergrowth and they both turn. Omera runs out of the trees, a cloth covering her nose and mouth. “We’ve got to clear out of this valley,” she pants. “It’s full of—“ She takes in the scene. “Oh, hell.” 

“Omera!” Cara gets to her feet and starts toward her, but she hears a  _ zwip _ and something wraps tight around her ankles, and she hits the ground hard, bursting two more of the flowers, right in her face. This time, the choking feels amazing. 

Djarin’s knee presses over her hips, and even that’s good. He pulls her wrists back and snaps a pair of binders around them. “I’m sorry,” he sighs. 

When she can breathe again, she says, “Are you kidding? We should have done this ages ago.” His weight on her, and the strain of being bound like this, is almost enough for her already. She squirms a little, searching for a position with friction between her legs. 

“What do I need to do?” 

“Get the spores cleaned off her, and you too, and then I’ll help you load her onto the cart,” Omera calls. She gestures with the remote, and the cart with their supplies moves closer. 

Djarin gets off of Cara, and she rolls over, gasping. He busies himself at the cart, wetting a rag with their water jug. “How long will it last?” 

“Hours. Maybe through the night.” 

The rag feels wonderful, cool and wet, and Cara chases his touch when he starts to wipe her down. He tries to scrub it out of the fabric of her shirt, but she’s moving too much. “Good enough,” says Omera, and Djarin tosses the rag into the center of the clearing and gets a fresh one for himself. 

“That’s such a great look,” she tells Omera when she approaches. “Mysterious. I like it.” 

Above the cloth protecting her face, Omera rolls her eyes. 

She gets her hands under Cara’s shoulders and down along her ribs, which drives Cara absolutely wild, and it’s an act of will to not writhe right out of her grasp. Djarin grabs the whipcord wrapped around her ankles, and they hoist her onto the bed of the cart, and he anchors the other end of the cord to the railing. “Back the way we came,” Omera says. “It’s too late to go to the village. We’ll have to make camp, but not here.” 

“You guys should gag me,” Cara says. “If this is going to last all night, you shouldn’t have to hear me whine and beg.” Somebody needs to get some rest, and it clearly won’t be her. 

“We’re not going to stake you out and leave you like this,” Omera tells her, and Cara’s burning frustration becomes anticipation. Oh, how she loves them. 

“We are going to keep you tied up, though,” says Djarin. 

Cara cranes her neck to grin at him. “Promises, promises.” 

Three agonizing miles later, they scout out a decent place. Omera leaves her the canteen, modified with a length of tubing and a bite valve. “Stay hydrated,” she advises. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Truthfully she’s plenty hydrated, just not in the conventional location. She watches them pitch the tent and start a cookfire, and all the while Cara gets more and more pitifully horny. If he had cuffed her with her hands forward, she could at least touch herself. 

It’s getting dark by the time they finish up and stand a moment by the fire, conferring. Djarin goes into the tent, and Omera returns to the cart. “Hey,” Cara says, trying to sound smooth. 

“I’m taking the first half hour,” Omera says. “He needs to clean out his breather unit. When he takes over, I’ll cook some supper. Eventually we’ll burn through some of your energy and switch to one hour shifts so we can get some rest. At some point, you’ll want to sleep more than you want to be touched.” That seems impossible in this moment. 

Half an hour. Half an hour with Omera. She’s going to come _so many times_. “Have you done this for someone before?”

“All I’m saying is that if you’re careful about collecting the spores, it can be recreational.” 

_Oh_. Cara’s hips hitch all on their own at that thought. “Omera,” she gasps. “Omera, I love you.” 

“I know. What do you need?” Omera says. 

“Everything,” Cara sobs. 

For the first time since this mess began, Omera smiles. “All right then.” She touches Cara’s face, and Cara leans into her soft palm and kisses her wrist. Omera runs her hand down over Cara’s chin, her throat, between her breasts and over her belly, and finally gets one finger under the band of Cara’s trousers. Cara nods, frantic now. 

From inside the tent, they hear a cough. Then, a choking noise. 

Omera freezes. Her eyelids drift closed in resignation. “I told him to be careful.” 

“You can make it back to the village quicker without us,” Cara urges her. 

But he’s already out of the tent, helmet back on, hauling ass toward the hovercart. Cara gets her calf against Omera’s waist and tries to shove her away. Djarin has two sets of binders out--how many does he carry on him?--and in what is surely a massive effort of the last of his willpower, he passes Omera completely, cuffs himself, and then cuffs his own cuffs to the hovercart’s rail, next to Cara’s tether. Then he turns and slumps to the ground with his back to the cart and his hands above his head, and he lets out a long, eloquent groan. 

“Yeah,” Cara replies. “This is good, though. Omera won’t need to do anything.” 

“I can’t touch you,” Djarin says. 

She doesn’t need to be touched. She needs him  _ in _ her. “And I can’t rip that helmet off your face. It’s win-win.” 

“That okay?” Omera checks. 

“Yes,” he says. “I need… yes.” And then he curses. “I didn’t bring protection.” 

“There’s a dose of inhibitors at home,” Cara tells him. Long as they get back in the next two days, they won’t have any surprises. 

“Then get over here,” he rasps. 

Cara shuffles to the side of the cart and swings her legs off. She has just enough slack to reach him. When she’s standing, Omera anticipates her needs, and gets Cara’s trousers down to her boots. “Thank you,” Cara says, shivering from the breeze on her skin. 

Omera gives Cara’s rear a playful smack, and Cara keens. Omera moves around her and kneels by Djarin. He’s leaning toward her, fists clenching and opening again, feet trying to get purchase on the turf, but all Omera does is reach carefully down to unbuckle his gunbelt, and open his pants, and ease the length of him free. 

The sight of him hard and flushed gets another groan out of Cara, and Djarin answers it when Omera lets go of him. She hesitates, just for a second, considering, but in the end she takes pity on Cara and steps away, after giving the top of Djarin’s helmet a kiss. 

Cara drops to her knees. Djarin stretches his legs out as low as they’ll go so she can straddle him. She’s stiff from the ride in the cart, and this is a leg cramp waiting to happen. 

Worth it, though, all of it: her wrists rubbed raw, grass stains on her knees, her ruined shirt from when he took her down with the grappling line. 

Every single thing is worth it when she gets herself aligned with him and takes him in, impossibly wet, her core tight around him, feeling each silky inch. Pleasure courses through her already. 

He strains beneath her, gets his legs up to keep her there, cold beskar digging into the curve of her ass, her trussed ankles suspended between his knees. “Cara. You don’t usually…” 

No, not usually, but this is a special occasion. She rests her brow against his helmet. “It’s good. It’s just right. Is it good for you?” 

He shudders. “Yes. Yes, it’s--” He breaks off into a long, loud moan when Cara moves. She laughs, drunk with it. 

Her first orgasm seizes her abruptly, a reward for the long wait. She arches back and gasps through it, but then it dies off like an explosion in the vacuum of space, blazing but brief, leaving her just as hungry. 

He’s not far behind, huffing now, rolling his hips upward, and Cara grips him the only way she can, her thighs on his hips, and she locks down. She looks toward Omera and finds her watching still, dark eyes wide and transfixed. 

Cara tilts her head, and Djarin follows her gaze, and as soon as he sees Omera there he comes. It sounds like it hurts. Like he’s drowning in there. She tucks her head into the place between his helmet and his pauldron, and lets him work through it. 

“You know what I want?” she says, when he’s been still for a few minutes. 

He lets his head fall back to the cart with a clang. “A towel?” 

Eventually, sure. They’ll be a mess when all this is done. But first, it’s going to be a long night. “I want you to ream me right up against the side of this thing.” 

“Up,” he says, lowering his legs so she can comply. 

She gets off of him, a thing her cunt does not want to do, not at all. It’s significantly easier for him to stand up than it is for her, but she does it, rolling back onto her numbed feet and somehow keeping her balance despite the state of her. He lets her lean on him to move into place, and lifts one arm so she can get under it. The cart’s railing digs into her gut just above her hips. She bends over, and he makes  _ such _ a noise. 

They don’t do this, not the two of them, and certainly not him and Omera. But it’s a special occasion, and maybe this, here, this way, will finally reach the chasm of need deep inside her. 

He tries to line up without the benefit of hands, still making a soft growl down in his chest. Cara feels the head of his cock cross her entrance, but she does not move to follow him or push back. “Come on,” she says. And then she yelps when he drives the breath out of her with his first thrust. 

“Okay?” he says. 

“Yeah,” she wheezes. She reaches back with her bound hands, and her fingertips find the bottom edge of his breastplate and pull him closer. 

He moves, hips snapping, and this, right here, this is better than a fight. It’s perfect, and it builds, and it burns, and Omera is still watching them, and who can blame her? Cara cries out at another brilliant climax that fades too soon. He doesn’t even seem to notice. When he comes again, it’s loud. 

“Kriff,” he mutters, his helmet pressed against her back. “I’m still--” 

“I can feel that,” Cara tells him. She shuts her eyes and lets her head droop for a moment’s respite. “Round three. Omera, do you want in on this yet?” 

Omera doesn’t answer. Cara looks up and finds her facing away from them, toward the edge of the woods. She stands very straight and still. Cara twists under Djarin to see what she’s looking at, and she spits a curse. 

The grinjer coming out of the woods is easily three meters long, all teeth and brindle fur, with long forelegs that make it look almost bipedal. 

The rifles are by the tent. If Omera moves, it’s going to charge. 

“Flare gun,” Din says, and he backs out of Cara. He’s the one who can shoot right now, but she has the slack to reach the gun at the other end of the cart. He drops down to boost her with his shoulder, and Cara didn’t ever expect to feel his pauldron just there, but here they are. She gets over the railing and turns on her side, and kicks the gun to him. 

He braces his elbow on the railing and takes his sweet time drawing a bead, enough time that the grinjer is only a couple meters from Omera, which is much, much too close, but his aim is good. The flare goes whizzing straight into the side of the thing’s muzzle. It turns away from Omera with a roar that shakes the trees, and it pounds the turf and charges them instead. 

Dying with her pants down in the bed of a hovercart might just be worse than getting killed by plants, but it’s a sacrifice Cara’s willing to make. 

She doesn’t have to, though, because red light flashes in the night and the grinjer drops before it reaches them, a perfect smoking hole in the back of its skull. Omera lowers her rifle and takes a shaky breath. 

“Beautiful shot,” Din says. 

“I’ve never been so turned on,” Cara adds, and Omera laughs, only a little exasperated with her and this whole absurd situation, and that sound is just as gratifying as everything they’ve been doing tonight. Cara turns on her back and smiles up at the stars. “Go team.” 

They try not to be disruptive while Omera sets about harvesting the grinjer, but they still have appetites. Only when the smell of roasting meat reaches her does Cara think of any needs beyond the one between her legs. She’s tired, yes, and sore, and bruising up, and she’s been neglecting the canteen, and she could eat probably four or five entire grinjers. The effects must be wearing off. 

But he still feels so  _ good _ in her. And they never get to hear their Mandalorian moan like this, and Omera never gets to watch Cara on top of him. So they have their round three, and four, and by the time they’re on five, Omera has finished her well earned supper, and she reclines against the dead grinjer like some kind of magnificent barbarian queen, still watching them. And the next time Cara looks over, she finds Omera doing more than watching. 

“Oh.” She stops moving her hips, and Din looks too. “When… when did you get hit?” Maybe she went into the tent where Djarin accidentally dosed himself. Maybe there are spores in the grinjer’s fur--maybe this is the one that left the flattened patch of flowers, and maybe it’s a weird symbiotic relationship that helps them find prey who are too stupid to keep from touching pretty things. 

“I didn’t,” Omera says, her fingers never stilling where she has her dress rucked up. 

“Okay,” Cara says, and she gets back to work, with perhaps a little more enthusiasm than she had a moment earlier. All night this has been just her and him, but now, finally, they can give Omera something too. Cara leans back on him, and wraps her fingers around the whipcord to hold that angle. “Come on,” she goads, and she sees him strain more against the binders, hiking his hips up. “Do it for her,” Cara says through a smirk, and he thrusts another orgasm out of her, the longest and most satisfying yet. 

He’s shaking when he comes right after, and he lets out a voiced sigh--and then his legs drop behind her, and his head lolls to one side. 

“Djarin,” she says, and bumps him. “Din?” 

Oh no. Oh _no._ “Omera!” 

She’s already there, stooping beside him, getting the edge of his cowl down under the helmet to feel for a pulse. “When’s the last time he had any water?” 

“Uh.” Cara is the worst. 

“He overheated,” Omera sighs. “His pulse is good. He’ll hate life when he wakes up, but you didn’t rut him to death.” 

Cara collapses against Omera. “Easy,” Omera says gently. “If I untie you, are you going to hold me down and grind on me?” 

Cara shakes her head. Omera gets the whipcord off of her, and finds Djarin’s remote for the binders. Cara climbs off him and puts his cock back in his pants, gently. They bring him over to the grinjer and lay him down, and leave the canteen close at hand. 

Cara gets water from their jug and douses her face and hands. The rest of her will have to wait. She has other needs, and she’ll hate life in the morning too, but for the moment the need to lie down beside Omera supersedes all else. 

The grinjer fur is thick and surprisingly soft. She puts her arm across Omera’s waist. “Weird day, huh?” 

She feels the laugh in Omera’s belly. “You know you owe me.” 

So, so much. “My kriffing life.” Cara smoothes her hand down Omera’s dress, and starts to ease the hem up over her thigh. Omera’s only reply is to lift her other leg so the fabric falls away faster. Cara’s fingers find her wet and waiting. “Can I pay in installments?” she whispers. 

“You can,” Omera says, already breathless from the slide of Cara’s fingers, worked up from hours of watching. “But I charge interest.”

Cara is counting on it. 


	4. win / win / win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s not a fight,” Omera reminds her, palming Cara’s left breast and moving to the right next. Her other hand strokes Cara’s hair, getting deep into the mass of it. “Or a race. You don’t have to work for it. It can be so good when you let go, let it come to you. Trust us?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompted: "Cara Dune is a goddess as we all know and all I want out of life is Din and Omera worshiping her as such."

Cara arches back against Omera to push herself that much more firmly onto Din’s mouth. He works his jaw, his lower lip pressing just above her entrance, his tongue circling her clit but not  _ quite _ touching, and Cara’s frustrated noise is half a yelp, half a moan. 

“Shhh,” Omera soothes. She pets Cara’s hair with one hand while the other hand roams, sometimes at Cara’s face, sometimes her gut, sometimes her breast. “You know we’ll take care of you.” 

She knows. No one does it like them; no one ever has. 

“You want more?” Omera says, voice like cool silk in the dark. 

“Nghh,” Cara says. She balls her fists in the sheet. 

“See, I love drawing this out. I love holding you and feeling you get all worked up. And Din—“ Omera’s roaming hand moves lower, and Din lets a breath out through his nose—“loves being between those magnificent thighs almost as much as I do, and almost as much as I love imagining him down there. You deserve to feel like this all the time.”

“I’m burning up,” Cara whimpers. 

Omera’s hand cups Cara’s left breast. She thumbs once at the nipple, and the fresh spur of pleasure streaks through Cara to where Din waits. Cara tightens her calves on Din’s back. He spreads his fingers on the top of her thighs, gentle, just to tell her that he has her. His tongue circles again. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Omera whispers. “And so strong. It’s like a gift when you let us take you apart.” Her own thighs tense at Cara’s sides. “I don’t want it to end.” 

Cara doesn’t either. But  _ something _ has to give when Omera and Din exchange an unspoken and unseen signal, and they move. Omera fondles Cara, rolling her nipple delicately between thumb and forefinger. And Din, Din takes rough breaths through his nose in time with the motion of his jaw, and his tongue moves at exactly the right speed, but not nearly enough pressure. Cara arches again. 

“It’s not a fight,” Omera reminds her, palming Cara’s left breast and moving to the right next. Her other hand strokes Cara’s hair, getting deep into the mass of it. “Or a race. You don’t have to work for it. It can be so good when you let go, let it come to you. Trust us?” 

“I do,” she gasps, but she needs— 

“Easy,” says Omera, running her hand down Cara’s arm. She uncurls Cara’s fingers from the sheet. 

With effort, Cara opens her other hand too. Omera returns her fingers to Cara’s breast, and Cara lets out a sob. 

Din hasn’t broken his pace. As much as she wants to force him closer, Cara loosens her hips, and relaxes her calves. On a rational level she knew that would open her up more to him, but she isn’t thinking rationally, so it takes her by surprise when he lets out the most obscene little grunt, like Cara is a good meal. 

“You see?” 

“Yeah,” Cara sighs. “It’s v—” 

It washes over and through her, long and bright, and it takes the last of the tension she was holding with it. It drowns out the wet smack of Din’s lips on her, and the sound that leaps from her throat like she’s been shocked. And it doesn’t take her out of herself, or fade and then pulse with aftershocks like it does when she grinds through a climax; it suffuses every bit of her, warm and tingling. 

Some places tingle more than others. 

Din kisses her cunt, her curls, the highest softest part of her inner thigh—and then stops there when Cara stiffens. He puts his fingers to the spot, feeling the heat of her skin. “I rubbed you raw?” he says, voice faltering and thick the way it gets every time he spends a while eating her or Omera out. 

“It’s fine,” Cara murmurs. She didn’t even notice it happening. “It just stings.” 

“Not fine.” He lays the flat of his tongue over most of the chafed spot, then draws back, and blows on her skin. Cara shivers. He does the same on the other side, and declares, “I’m shaving.”

“You’re not allowed,” says Omera. 

“This is the Way,” Cara agrees. 

“You can’t even see me—”

“But we know,” Omera says. She touches Cara’s cheek. “May I?”

Cara smiles broadly, so she’ll feel it. “Yes, please.” 

Omera lays Cara down on the mattress, and steps away from the bed to fetch the jar of stuff she keeps around for burns. She makes it herself from the mash of some plant that grows by the river, plus a couple herbs and a dash of krill oil for good measure. 

Din kisses a path up Cara, taking his sweet time at her belly and between her breasts. Then he hovers above her face, her scent strong on his mouth, and he says, “Turn over?” 

“Mmm,” Cara says, and does. Din brings his knees up to bracket her waist, sets one hand in the middle of her back, and waits while Cara adjusts the lay of her breasts on the mattress. Then Din sits back, a comforting weight over her hips, and presses his knuckles under Cara’s shoulderblades. 

They are, to her relief, past the point where he would wallow over causing her any measure of pain when he meant to give pleasure. They’ve done plenty of stress testing; they know how much she can abide, and moreover, how much can be an actively good thing. And his hands, working into Cara’s already-loose muscles, are a very good thing. 

Omera finds Cara again by touch, and kneels between Cara’s calves. “These,” she says, running her fingertips down the back of Cara’s thighs, “these I love.” 

Cara shivers. Din leans a little more into her. Omera’s fingers quest up between Cara’s legs to find the rasped areas. She has such fine hands, strong and graceful. Those, Cara loves. 

Omera takes her hands away and opens the jar, and when she touches Cara again, it is with a layer of cooling balm on her fingers. Cara sighs into the mattress. 

Her body has always been a useful, if blunt, instrument to her—not a thing to rejoice in, before she met the two of them. She figures that by the same token, Din didn’t always recognize the capacity of his hands to soothe, or to arouse. 

But Omera’s hands have a tendency to change what they touch, given enough time. Her ministrations ease all manner of hurt. It’s what she’s done with them, and it’s what she does now to Cara. 

Shortly after Omera finishes, Din does too. They press close on either side of her with kisses, and they leave Cara feeling no pain. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you would like to see a particular thing for this OT3 you can prompt me on Tumblr at @hauntedfalcon.


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